


Rosey's Tumblr Ficlet or Prompt Fills!

by Minirose96



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet dump, I really can't remember them all, Scroogelock, Some After S3, Some stories written Pre S3, There's more characters but I forget them, Zombielock, almost-porn, more tags to come, one shots, other AUs, unrelated prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:44:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minirose96/pseuds/Minirose96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm moving all the ficlets from this group to the Sherlollidrops Series, and then deleting this one, to keep things more organized for myself. Thanks for understanding!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleeping Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K
> 
> Origin: This was a challenge fill from MorbidMegz, sleeping positions, and written approximately 8 months ago.
> 
> Brief summary: Sherlock's taken Molly along with him after his 'death' in S2, and she's less than thrilled with his treatment of her. She tells him so. Pre S3

Sherlock was dead. Well, that's what everyone else thought, but, considering he was standing next to her, that obviously wasn't true. She couldn't fully wrap her head around how they had wound up here, in the hotel room, staring at a single double bed.

One second, she was leading him to her flat after cleaning him up in the morgue after the fall, the next he was pulling her from her flat, telling her it was bugged, and she was compromised.

With her life suddenly in danger, Sherlock had insisted she come along, and she, being the ever loyal pathologist, didn't even put up a fight. Her heart still raced as she recalled him running her at a run from her flat, his hand clutching hers to keep her from slowing down until he could figure out the next plan of action.

A quick phone call to Mycroft, and they were being picked up by a strange woman in a black car, Anthea, she said her name was, but Molly had doubts as to whether or not that was her real name. Still, there wasn't much time to question anything, given that Sherlock and her seemed to be having some silent conversation, one that Molly wasn't privy to.

Eventually, Anthea nodded, and Sherlock smirked, and turned away to effectively ignore the both of them, leaving Molly completely in the dark. What exactly was going on here, and where were they going now?

Only one of those questions was answered, as they pulled up to the hotel. From what Molly could see around them, it was definitely outside of London. Just how long had they been driving?

Her thoughts were torn from her as the door opened, and an impatient consulting detective looked down at her. "Come on, Molly. We're staying here until we can get a flight out."

"Flight?" She squeaked, as she scrambled ungracefully from the car, stumbling right into him. "Sorry!" she muttered, blushing fiercely as she righted herself.

Sherlock smirked, but chose not to comment. "Yes, flight. And before you fuss, your position at Bart's is safe, as is your cat." With that, he turned, and seemed to stalk into the hotel, leaving her to trail behind him. She cast one last glance behind her as the black car, and the strange woman disappeared with it.

Now, after checking in under false names, Molly stood just inside the room, still looking at the bed, wondering how exactly this was going to work.

Once again, she was shaken from her thoughts by Sherlock as he shut the door behind them and stepped further into the room, already unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"W-what are you doing?" Molly stammer, quickly turning around, her cheeks a deep shade of red as the blood rushed up.

"Undressing, obviously. My body requires rest, after the strain I've put on it by jumping from a rooftop." Sherlock replied. She could practically see the eye roll that must have accompanied his words.

Well, at least that settled the bed issue… Molly swallowed as she heard his shirt hit the ground.

"Well, umm. . okay. I'll just…" her words drifted off as she heard him come up behind her, stopping only when he was just barely touching her back with his bare chest. Molly's heart was doing flips, but as usual, he seemed unperturbed by the closeness.

"It's a bit late to be acting nervous now, don't you think? You've already seen me in less, while you were cleaning me before I woke up, and you require rest too. We'll share the bed, it's big enough." Sherlock stated in his usual logical manner.

Molly's blush only deepened at the truth in his words. It irked her, how close he was, how condescending he was acting, after everything she had done for him, and Molly, admittedly over tired, was sick of it. She took a step away, and turned around to give him a scolding look. "Fine, Sherlock. You know, after everything I've done, you could at least not talk to me like I'm some silly little kid. I'm going to freshen up." For once, she didn't stutter, and as she moved passed him to the bathroom, she turned around just long enough to say, "And you're welcome for saving your bloody life." before she shut the door and locked it between them, leaving a stunned Sherlock in her wake.

He could hear the shower as it turned on, but he still didn't move as he contemplated her words. Had he really forgotten a simple thank you? Surely it was implied, at least. Of course, now that he looked back, his actions didn't exactly scream grateful. Sherlock frowned. This certainly was not what he had planned. But then, Molly wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. Things never went to plan anymore.

Sherlock sighed quietly, and went to the side of the bed closest to the door, and shoved the blankets aside before laying down on his side as he waited for Molly to exit the shower.

Molly took her time, scrubbing her skin until it was pink as she worked her frustrations away. By the time she was done, the water was cooling, and she felt like a child throwing a hissy fit. After all, Sherlock was just being… well, Sherlock. What had she expected? Just because he said she counted, didn't mean anything would change between them.

She slipped her jumper back on over her head, glad that she had worn a baggy one, so it was able to cover her most important parts, just barely. She pulled her knickers on as well and, feeling nervous, exited the bathroom. She took in Sherlock's position, and hoped, prayed even, that he was actually asleep, because now that she was clean, she was utterly knackered, an was looking forward to sleep herself.

No such luck. As soon as she settled her weight on the mattress, Sherlock sat up, and turned to look at her with his deducing look.

She swallowed, and tried her best to ignore him as she laid down, facing away from him. She could feel his eyes boring into her, but it was his words that really shocked her.

"Molly." What was that in his tone? Still, he continued. "I didn't mean to be condescending. You are much more intelligent than a child. I realize I've been less thank thankful for your efforts. I would quite literally be dead without you, so, Thank you."

Molly could feel the heat returning to her cheeks, and, unable to find the right words, she simply nodded, and buried her head into the pillows.

"Good night then, Molly." Sherlock said after a few tense moments of quiet. He laid back down, sighing again, and closed his eyes, thinking that she was still angry with him, rightfully so.

The silence was strained, to say the least.

"You're welcome." she finally spoke quietly, still not turning to him, though the atmosphere in the room definitely changed for the better. "Good night, Sherlock."

she closed her eyes, and snuggled into the pillow, unaware that Sherlock was smiling softly as he too settled comfortably. Amazingly enough, they both slept well, dreaming of each other, with neither aware of the others thoughts.


	2. Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K
> 
> Origin: This was a prompt from MorbidMegz, a prompt based on the song 'Dream a Little Dream of Me' by Mama Cass
> 
> Brief summary: Sherlock's away on a case, leaving Molly alone for the first time sine their relationship began. Cute texts. Pre S3

Molly stood at her bedroom window, and stared up at the night sky as her mind wandered. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the sill as her head rested in her hands. She often found herself in this position, ever since Sherlock had returned from the dead, ever since he had told her how much she really counted.

She smiled softly at the memory. It had been the one time she had ever seen the consulting detective flustered, but it was also the sweetest moment Sherlock had ever given her.  And then, of course, he had kissed her chastely, the softest touch of his lips against hers as he tried to convey his feelings in a physical way since words had escaped him.

Since then, they had been… well, maybe not dating in the typical sense, but they were definitely exclusive, only with each other. Sherlock refused to use the words ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’ to describe them, saying they were childish and very inaccurate. Instead, he simply called her ‘his pathologist,’ which was even cuter. Dates usually consisted of him coming into the morgue with a bag of crisps, and them examining a body together, or him finding an excuse to take her to crime scenes to get her professional opinion before the corpse was brought to her morgue. It definitely wasn’t a usual relationship, but it worked for them.

Now though, Sherlock was away on a case with John, and wouldn’t be back for a while. Tonight would be the first night in almost a month that she would be sleeping alone. Usually, Sherlock would curl around her, his chest to her back, and kiss her shoulder as they drifted off to sleep, sometimes after love making, sometimes just so they’d be close.  Right now, she missed his kisses, but she needed to sleep, so she finally turned away from the window, and walked over to the bed, slipping under the covers.

She snuggled into her pillow, and reached over to Sherlock’s side of the bed to grab one of his to hug close, inhaling his husky scent as she began to drift off, until her cell phone rang on her bedside table. She frowned, and reached for the phone, wondering who could possibly be texting her now.

_Sweet dreams, Molly Hooper – SH_

Her eyes got wide as she read the text. This was new…  Sherlock texting her during a case. But then,they’d never been in a separated situation before.  She smiled. Even if he wasn’t her boyfriend, he sure did know just what to do, and he truly was an amazing, fast learner on what she liked. He put an effort for her, and she’d always remember that.

_Dreaming of you, Sherlock Holmes. – Mx_

She set her phone aside, and snuggled deeper into the blankets, hugging his pillow close as she finally fell asleep.


	3. Break In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K
> 
> Origin: This was a prompt from Irishblonde2, based on the song 'Break-in' by Halestorm. Written Pre-S3
> 
> Brief summary: Molly Doesn't think she matters. Sherlock proves her wrong. Pre S3

“You should know by now how much you matter to me Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said, frowning at the mousy pathologist as she refused to meet his eyes. They stood across from each other in the morgue. Molly held a small stack of folders between them like a shield, against what, he couldn’t decide. Perhaps against him.

“I don’t matter to you, Sherlock… what I can do for you is what you care about.” Molly replied, still not looking up at him. She sighed quietly, and looked down at the folders in her hands. She had autopsy reports to finish, but now she just didn’t have the drive. Ever since Sherlock had returned, things had gone back to before. He still treated her the same, only being really nice when he wanted something, to the point where she had begun to doubt the words he had said to her a little over three years ago. Of course, she was just a love struck pathologist, she should know better than to think she actually counted. Stupid.

“You’re wrong.” Sherlock said, taking a step closer. His hands were tucked into his coat, but his eyes seemed to seer into her as she finally looked up as she stumbled back a step to compensate.

“No I’m not.” She replied, biting her lower lip nervously, though she managed not to stutter. Her voice sounded so sad yet so accepting, because she truly believed her words. How could she possibly count?

“Yes, you are.” He argued, taking another step closer. “I told you, you’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.” He repeated the words he had used, but he could tell, from the small shake of her head she did, that it wouldn’t be enough to convince her that he cared again.

Sentiment was so hard for him to grasp, but he wanted her to understand. He wasn’t leading her along. She was the only one who tore away his defenses, the wall he had built around his heart to hide all feelings and emotions, because he had deemed them unnecessary, and dangerous. But she had broken into his heart anyways, and, much to his astonishment, she had made him whole. How could she not see that too?

It was time. He needed to tell her. But how? This wasn’t his area. For so long, he had been married to his work, but now, he found he wanted more. He wanted her. “Molly.” He said her name gently, taking yet another step closer.

Molly glanced up as he said her name, looking up at him through her lashes. He didn’t back away again, though her body wanted to flee from anymore emotional turmoil. “W-what Sherlock?” she asked hesitantly, caught off guard by the look in his eyes.

“I… find it hard to express this, so bear with me.” He began, taking the last small step closer, and lifting her chin to look her directly in the eyes before be continued. “You are the only one who has continuously believed in me, and trusted me. You’ve seen past my faults to something even I refused to allow myself to believe exists. Even John has never seen me as you have. You managed to break through every defense I placed against this kind of assault, and have left me defenseless to…this.” he was so unsure, for the first time, Sherlock seemed at a loss for words.

Molly swallowed nervously as he spoke, and she felt her eyes begin to water, until tears streamed silently down her cheeks. “W-what is… this?” she asked, not wanting to believe what he was telling her, after everything. Her heart felt raw, even as Sherlock wiped her tears away with his thumbs.

“You’ve taken over my mind palace, Molly. No matter which room I go into, your warmth is there. It has been for a very long time, but I refused to acknowledge it, because I thought it was illogical, foolish even, to feel how I feel.” He cupped her face gently, willing her to understand.

“What do you feel, Sherlock?” She asked quietly.

“The same thing you feel about me.” He replied, before leaning forward, and kissing her chastely. “I want you to be my pathologist, in more ways than just this. I’m rubbish at relationships, but with you, I want to try. Will you let me, Molly Hooper?” He asked, feeling more vulnerable than he ever had before.

Molly was speechless for a long time after the kiss as she processed everything. This… it seemed too good… but the look in his eyes, his words, she could tell, somehow, that he wasn’t lieing, so she nodded slightly, and wrapped her hands around his neck to pull him down for another kiss.

As their lips melded together, Sherlock could feel the last of the walls he had put up fall away. Yes, this might be reckless, leaving his heart bare, but this, this was perfect, even as it left him defenseless, and he wouldn’t give this up for any amount of protection.


	4. Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K
> 
> Origin: This was a prompt from nadiahjamaludin, based on the song ' Candles' by Daughter. Written Pre-S3
> 
> Brief summary: Sherlock's staying with Molly after his fall. He's an arse, and she takes offense to his lack of caring.

"You're too old to be so shy, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said, sitting on her couch shirtless, with only a sheet covering his lower half, as was a common occurance since he had effectively died according to everyone but her and Mycroft less than a week ago.

Molly flinched visibly at Sherlock's words, and a chill ran down her spine as she was forced into a long past memory. Immediately, she felt her heart rate increase, her breathing get faster, the beginnings of a minor anxiety attack. Oh, it wasn't Sherlock's fault, after all, he had no clue about the event those words flashed her back to.

It had been over a year ago, since her third date with Jim, Jim from IT, who turned out to be Moriarty. She could remember, down to the barest detail, the events of that night, and now, her mind forced her to relive it.

It was supposed to be a simple night, with dinner and drinks and friendly conversation with her boyfriend. It had turned into what Molly new viewed as a nightmare. One drink turned into two, two into three, until she was intoxicated enough to turn reckless, and Jim had used that against her. He had acted like such the gentleman until that night. She realized now that that was the only night she had ever seen the real Jim, and oh, what a fool she had been.

He had escorted her home from the pub, and had entered her home with her under the guise of helping her into her bed so she could sleep off the alcohol, but it had turned into so much more. He had 'helped' her strip off her cardigan, and laid it onto her dresser before pushing her gently onto her bed. When she resisted, he had said, "You're too old to be so shy, Molls, isn't this what you want?" At the time, the alcohol in her system had taken control, turned her into a much more daring, uncaring person. She had taken his words as a challenge, one she had lived up to fully, according to him the next morning. Her skin crawled as she remembered the smug smirk on his face as he kissed her goodbye before slipping out of her flat so she could get ready for work. And then, of course, Sherlock lets her know quite readily that he was Gay Jim, and later on after that, not so gay, and not so sweet, seeing as his hobby had been strapping bombs to innocent people.

Sherlock, who had watched the different emotions and reactions her body displayed as she remembered the night, stood, holding the sheet up with one hand as the other went to her shoulder, and shook her gently, snapping her out of her mind. She looked up at him, truly terrified now, as she took a quick step away.

"Sorry Sherlock…it's… nothing. I'm fine." She muttered, looking down as she closed her eyes. Her heart beat incredibly fast as her body warred with its fight or flight instinct towards a threat that was long gone, thanks to the man in front of her, who was still watching her warily.

He could tell something about his words had set her off, though he wasn't sure why. He had just been commenting that she shouldn't feel the need to stutter or blush around him so much, considering everything she had done for him in the last four years, since he began invading her morgue to use the equipment for his experiments.

"Seeing as you have narrowly avoided a panic attack, something is obviously not fine." He stated dryly, noting her posture and lowered eyes. It painted a picture in his mind, telling him that it was a past trauma, something that now brought her great shame, something linked to those words. he needed more data. "What happened?" He asked, worried for his pathologist. He almost felt sorry, looking at her fidget nervously, that he could never return her feelings for him fully. He just didn't do love, though he knew if that ever changed, she would be ideal, so calm, sweet, unobtrusive, someone who would let him go about his business without much interruption unless he was being a complete tosser. Right now though, he was simply concerned, and he let it show in his own posture and tone.

Molly swallowed heavily, and opened her eyes, though she couldn't bring herself to look up at him. "It's…" she began, bringing a hand up to cup her neck nervously, "just… please don't say… that around me again…" she requested, feeling vulnerable under his intense gaze.

Her reply wasn't enough for Sherlock, so he asked again, "What happened Molly? I've already reached the conclusion that the phrase was the cause, I want to know why."

"Ahum…" She pursed her lips together, trying to stop herself from crying. After all this time, now he chose to demand to know this? She really didn't want to tell him anything, ever, not about this, but she could tell he wouldn't just let it go. That just wasn't Sherlock Holmes, the man she loved. "It's… Jim said that… to me once… and it didn't end well… I know you probably think it's silly, but I'd… prefer if you wouldn't. Say it again, that is."

"Ah. You had sex with Moriarty. Of course." Sherlock said, finally understanding as her cheeks blossomed red. He spoke with an almost cold precision, though not in a condescending way, he was simply speaking the facts as they became known to him. "Probably while intoxicated, and he goaded your inebriated state of mind until he made you believe you wanted it too, obviously using your meekness while sober against you. Very well, I'll refrain from such comments from now on." With the small puzzle solved, Sherlock went to sit back on her couch, leaving a stunned Molly feeling as though she had just been slapped.

"You're… horrible, Sherlock Holmes." Molly finally said, before going to her bedroom, and slamming the door between them. She collapsed onto her bed, sobbing heavily, and this time it was Sherlock left behind to ponder how he had once again unintentionally hurt his pathologist. Why, he mused, did he always seem to say exactly the wrong thing to her?

A larger part of his chest began to ache, as he listened to her sobs. He knew he felt guilt, and… maybe a bit of jealously. Towards Moriarty, he imagined, for using his pathologist against him in such a cruel way. And then, he realized, perhaps, just maybe, Molly counted just a bit more than he realized. Still, he was dead, it was best this way, if she hated him before he left to track down the rest of Moriarty's network. When he got back, maybe he could fix this. Maybe.

The next morning, Molly woke up, and rolled out of bed, feeling dreadful. She didn't want to leave her room, not after yesterday, and Sherlock… She groaned at the thought. Still, she needed her morning tea, so she stood, and walked hesitantly into the living room, finding it empty. Sherlock, it seemed, was gone.

 _Maybe that's a good thing._  Molly thought, starting her daily ritual of putting a kettle on. And making herself a cup of some lovely peppermint tea. As she sat down at the dining table with her cup, she found a note, under a vanilla- scented candle that she had left lit the night before, but was now blown out. She picked up the scrap of paper, and smiled softly at the words.

_I'm sorry, Molly Hooper._

_SH_


	5. Let Her Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+ 
> 
> Origin: This was a prompt from Anonymous, based on the song ' Let Her Go' by Passenger. Written Pre-S3
> 
> Brief summary: Sherlock and Molly were in a relationship. Until they weren't. Sherlock needs to make things right.

"Molly, turn the light on, I can’t see.” Sherlock spoke the words, and immediately narrowed his eyes as he looked up from the specimen in his microscope. Molly wasn’t even here, hadn’t been in fifteen days, 19 hours, and thirty-seven minutes. But then, who was keeping track? Oh right, he was. Sherlock took a deep breath as he stood, and flicked the light on himself, cursing his betraying mind. After all, he had been the one to force her to leave.

She had been a distraction, ever since they had formed a relationship. Ever since he had held her for the first time, she had consumed his thoughts, taken over his mind palace like some virus, spreading from one room to the next, he couldn’t stand it.

What had really broken him, though, was after he had returned from a two-week long trip to France, for an especially interesting case. During the entire trip, he had been thinking of her, how she felt underneath him as she panted his name, how it felt to run his fingers down her sides as he pushed into her. It had impeded his case work, adding days to the time it would usually have taken him to finish the case. He couldn’t stand to have his mind so distracted, by a woman, no less.

When he had returned home, He had found her lieing on the couch with a medical text, and he had immediately moved to cover her body with him, pushing her into the cushions as he greeted him breathlessly with a kiss. He felt his body demanding hers, and he couldn’t’ stand his dependence. With much more force than it should have taken him, He had pulled away from her accepting arms, told her to get out, and had walked to his bedroom, and locked himself inside, despite her questions, her crying.

For what seemed like hours, she was outside the door, asking him why, begging him to explain what she had done. He had blocked out her cries to the best of his abilities, and eventually, she just…stopped. “All right Sherlock… I understand. I knew you’d… grow bored eventually. Sorry for wasting your time.” She had sounded so broken, but she had left, just Sherlock had wanted, and he let her.

Since that day, Sherlock had made the mistake of asking her to do things for him regularly, whether it was asking for coffee, or fetch him things, or even come stroke his hair as he went into his mind palace, all the things that had become routine when she moved in with him. Now, he had none of that.

And now, worse yet, she was on his mind constantly, and where before his thoughts of her was a light buzzing at the back of his mind, now it seemed like a siren, consuming every ounce of his attention. His thoughts were drawn to her hair, her eyes, her lips (which were perfectly proportioned and definitely not too small), her smile, her laugh, every tiny detail he had grown fond of floated through his mind.

He hadn’t taken a single case since he had demanded she leave, couldn’t find the time. John had been more than a little angry with him when he had been the one to come fetch Molly’s things. Sherlock had simply told him he missed a jumper, and to mind his own business.

Now, as he sat in front of his microscope once more, he realized how empty his life was, how pointless, without Molly. He needed her. He realized too late, that he loved Molly Hooper, and it had taken his letting her go to understand just how deep his emotions ran, and now, his emotions terrified him.

He needed her, so much. He needed to see her, needed to feel her pressed against him on the rare occasions when he decided to sleep, needed her to reach the highs he once had. He had been stupid to even think that she was a distraction, when in fact she was the reason he could function, and think properly. He was shamelessly addicted to her, and he needed her back.

He looked at the clock, knowing that Molly would still be at Bart’s. Making up his mind on a decision that should have been made long before, Sherlock stood, grabbed his coat and scarf, and headed out the door.

__

Molly hovered over a cadaver, barely paying attention as she did the usual procedures for an unsuspicious death. This one, an old man, had obviously died of a heart attack. Good thing, because as she often found now, her thoughts drifted to Sherlock, and her eyes began to water as she once against found herself wondering what had gone wrong. No matter how she looked at it in her head, she just couldn’t see what had happened to cause Sherlock to demand her to leave. It must have been her fault… Sherlock hadn’t even been in to look at the bodies in almost two weeks, and a few of them had been murders, surely interesting enough to him. The only answer she could come up with, was that he just didn’t want to see her.

She sighed heavily, and wiped her eyes as she heard the door slam against the back wall with the force by which it had been opened. “Oh, Charles, sorry…is it time for my break?” She asked, trying to hide the pain in her voice, refusing to turn around to look at the intern who had recently been assigned to the morgue.

“I’m not Charles, Molly.” Sherlock said, his deep baritone voice echoing throughout the cold, silent morgue. It took him less than a second to realize that Molly had been crying, and why, and it tore a fresh hole into his heart. This was his fault, because he couldn’t see what was so obvious. “But yes, I believe it is time for your break.”

Molly felt like her heart had stopped. She couldn’t deal with this again, this pain, but she couldn’t hide anything from Sherlock, that much was so obvious, so she turned around, and looked up at him, trying to keep her eyes clear. “Why are you here Sherlock?” she asked quietly, swallowing hard as she felt her voice crack on his name.

Immediately, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, and kissed the wet track her tears had left down her cheek. “I am so sorry, Molly Hooper.” He said, apologizing over and over as he continued to kiss her face, everywhere but her lips. His heart pounded, not wanting her to reject him after his own revelation. “I never should have told you to leave. I know I’m a right git, but I need you, come back to Baker’s street, bring Toby, and all your things, and just come back.” His voice begged her as he pulled her closer, pressing her into his chest. “Please.”

Gently, Molly shoved against his chest, until Sherlock was forced to release her, or keep her trapped against her will. “Sherlock… I can- I can’t do this again. W-what happens when you get in another mood, and demand I go again? Am I supposed to j-just wait, until you want me again? I’m not some…toy to be thrown away, and picked up again as you please. I just…my heart can’t take it Sherlock.” She began to cry, unbidden, and Sherlock pulled her close once more, shushing her gently as he clutched as the lapels of his coat, and sobbed into his chest.

“Never again, Molly Hooper. I want you to stay, no matter what mood I’m in, it will always want you. I know I don’t deserve another chance, but give me one anyways. I can’t think without you. Come back, please.” Again, his voice held a ring of honesty, and of desperation.

Before Molly could respond again, Sherlock pulled away, fumbling as he reached into the pocket of his coat, and withdrew a small box, the only reason it had taken him so long to get here. “Please Molly.” He said as he opened the box to show her it’s contents.

Molly’s heart dropped as he saw the box.  _He couldn’t be…_ When it opened, she sighed. _He wasn’t._  It was a simple yet beautiful bracelet,  silver, maybe white gold, she couldn’t tell. “W-what’s this supposed to be, Sherlock?” she asked, swallowing thickly.

“A promise.” Sherlock replied, picking the bracelet up and setting the box aside on the autopsy table next to the body. He held it for her to see an engraving, previously hidden to her. Carved into the silver, were the words ‘You Will Always Count.’ Molly gasped as she read them. “Sherlock…”

“Will you come back?” He asked, taking her hand gently in his.

Another swallow, and Molly nodded slowly. Sherlock smiled, as he secured the bracelet to her wrist, and pulled her close again. Molly could feel the tension leave him, replaced by a quiet relief as he muttered, “Thank you, Molly Hooper,” before his lips crashed against hers for a marvelously possessive kiss.


	6. She'd Always Believe...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+
> 
> Origin: This was a prompt from saveair-stopbreathing. The original prompt is the summary. Pre S3
> 
> Brief summary: Let's say Molly didn't help Sherlock fake his death. She's grief stricken, and while she's sobbing her cute little heart out Donovan makes a snarky remark and Molly goes off on her.

Molly couldn't believe the news when she heard. Sherlock Holmes was actually dead. For a long time, she had refused to believe it. Then, of course, she was forced to watch them wheel in his body. One look at those curls, and she had known it to be true. No one had those curls, except for him. Molly ran from the morgue, tears streaming down her cheeks as she thought about everything that had happened in the last few days. She hadn't even bothered to pause when Mike approached her. She just babbled an apology, and said she wouldn't be in for a few days. In the end, he had let her go.

That night, she had stayed up the whole time, remembering the last time she had seen the consulting detective alive. He had told her that he thought he was going to die. She had asked what she could do, asked what he needed. He had replied, quite simply, that he needed _her._ At that time, she didn't know what it meant, but it had sent her heart racing. He had kissed her like a man clinging to the last grasp of sanity, and then he was just… gone. He had swept past her and out of the room before Molly could to more than let out a small whimper of yearning.

The next day hadn't been much better. She had spent it curled up on her couch, with Toby in her lap, and a pint of Mint Chocolate chip ice cream in her lap as she cried. A call from John, asking how she was doing, and she was crying all over again. He was always wonderful to her, even though she knew he must be grieving too. She invited him over, and they shared the pint, as well as a bottle of wine she had been keeping for a special occasion. Who cared about any of that now though? By the time John left, the pint was gone, as was the wine, and she, at least, had felt giddy on drunkenness and mint-chocolate ice cream.

She woke up the next morning to a splitting headache, and, of course, she had to get back to work. A broken heart didn't count as a legitimate illness, sadly. She showered, and got dressed, but didn't bother even attempting to fix herself up beyond that. After all, only the dead would see her… She swallowed thickly as she left her flat, and made her way to Bart's.

The first few hours were okay. A few people stopped in to give her their condolences, since almost everyone had known how she felt about the consulting detective. Of course, there were a few who also came for different reasons. A few simply shook their heads in disgust at her actions, because they believed what the news was saying, that Sherlock was a fake. There was no way. She'd never let herself think, for even a second, that Sherlock was anything but real.

Of course though, when a tall body with dark curly hair came in, Molly lost it again. It didn't matter that he was just a bit too tall, his hair a shade too light, his form a bit too rounded, even the small similarities set her off. She broke down again, and had to retreat to her office in the hopes that it would calm her down enough that she'd be able to perform the autopsy on this unknown man.

She hadn't been alone for more than two minutes when the door of her office opened, and a familiar woman stepped in. She had seen her occasionally, whenever a body for a case came in and Lestrade hadn't had the time to receive her reports himself. Donovan, Molly thought her name was. She had never been particularly nice to Molly, but whenever Sherlock and she were in the same area, Molly recalled many of the cutting comments she had made towards him. She was immediately on edge, already feeling raw as she continued to cry in front of the other woman.

Donovan's lips twitched in a barely contained sneer as she watched the quivering pathologist. "Why are you crying for him? He was a freak, and a monster. It was only a matter of time before his lies came out." She scolded her like Molly was a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and her words only infuriated the pathologist.

"You… Get out of my office, you horrible woman!" She said, her tears suddenly stopping as Molly found something – or someone, rather – to take out all her anger on for the slandering of Sherlock's name. she took several steps closer as she spoke, glaring at the other woman in a very un-Molly-like fashion. "He wasn't a freak, and the real monsters are people like you, who were too stupid to believe in Sherlock. He was a genius, Sherlock was real, Moriarty was real, and," Molly had ended up backing the startled Sergeant to the door, and she opened it before shoving her forcefully out. "You are never to come back to my morgue." With that, Molly slammed the door, not allowing Donovan to mutter a single argument.

She locked it behind her, and returned to her desk, collapsing into her seat, the tears coming back in full now that she was gone. No matter what anyone said, she'd always believe in Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Pathologist and Detective an Item

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/Very light T
> 
> Origin: This was a prompt from Anonymous, Pre S3. The original prompt is the summary.
> 
> Brief summary: Sherlock discovers that everyone thinks he and Molly are together after his return.

Everyone seemed to have the wrong notion of just what Molly was to the consulting detective. Sherlock began to notice the remarks, read the papers. Some of the headlines were just plain ridiculous – "Dead Consulting detective back with a beau", "The Detective's undead romance" and "Queen of the Dead captures Consulting Detective's Heart". The last one was particularly irksome, considering how it insulted Molly, poking fun at her profession.

Of course, it wasn't as though they weren't unintentionally fueling the useless media's proclamations on his sudden living and taken status.

Molly had been the first person he was seen with after coming home, holding hands no less as he tugged her from the hospital so they could go tell John together. That had certainly been a sight to behold. The journalists had gone absolutely ballistic, taking picture after picture of the two, even as they ducked into a cab and went off to John's new flat with his fiancé, a Ms. Mary Morstan.

Not only had he left with a bruised jaw, but he had been forced to sleep at Molly's flat because Mrs. Hudson had cleaned out 221B and it had to be refurnished before he could move back in. Somehow or another, the tabloids had discovered this fact, and had staked out Molly's flat. When they left together, Molly to go to the morgue and he to go to Baker's street to rearrange his lodgings with his landlady, they had once again been caught on camera hurrying into a cab together. Talk about adding fuel to the fire.

Even their closest friends had fallen into it, much to his displeasure.

—

Two weeks after his return, Sherlock, and John (who, though still a bit miffed, had at least listened to his explanation and was still Sherlock's friend) were standing in the morgue, waiting for Molly to return with some lab results for a case.

When she reappeared with the needed results, she passed them to Sherlock with none of her nervous stuttering, and all of her usual bubbly personality showing through. "Is there anything else I can get you while you're here Sherlock? Coffee, maybe?" she offered happily, a smile spread across her face. He nodded simply, not even looking at her as she bustled off to get it.

John just stared at him, raising a brow until Sherlock looked up from the papers. "What?" he demanded, scowling.

"Nothing. Just wondering when you two started, you know, seeing each other." John said pointedly, glancing at the door the pathologist had just walked out of.

"We aren't." Sherlock replied, clearly annoyed, as he turned his attention back to the results. "The butler did it, how unoriginal." He announced after a moment, setting the paper aside as Molly returned, brandishing the coffee.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking the cup and a long drink. Molly simply nodded, and beamed as she picked up the paper Sherlock had abandoned, and stuck it into a folder to be sent to New Scotland Yard for the official case documentation.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had headed for the door, and had glanced over his shoulder at a shocked John, who was standing there, looking back and forth between the two, not sure if he had heard right. Sherlock had actually thanked someone without provocation. He shook his head, and followed Sherlock. "Not dating my arse." He muttered, though he didn't press further.

—

The next to bring up their nonexistent relationship had been the yarders.

Sherlock got a text from Lestrade for a particularly interesting sounding case, so naturally, he jumped for the chance. The only problem was that John was away with his fiancé-turned-wife on their honeymoon, and he needed an assistant. Naturally, he turned to the next best person, the only other person he trusted to have enough medical experience to be of some use to him – he certainly wasn't going to leave it to Anderson. Molly had been more than happy to join him at a crime scene, saying she had always been curious about how this side of things worked.

They arrived together, having shared a cab to save expenses since he had picked her up from Bart's, and it was clear immediately that she was the center of much gossip.

"Hello freak, how'd you get a girlfriend?" Donovan was the first to speak, having no qualms with being blunt towards them. She still didn't trust Sherlock at all.

Molly, of course, turned bright red, while Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "Lovely to see you again, Donovan." He didn't even bother correcting her before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, leaving a flustered pathologist to scurry behind him. But that wasn't the end of it, not by a long shot.

Next was Anderson, who made an outrageous attempt to flirt with Molly, despite the implications. "Umm…" she simply stammered, taking a few steps away from the other man, accidentally bumping into Sherlock. He steadied her with one hand while shooting daggers at Anderson. "I'm sure your wife would love to know of your adulterous tendencies, Anderson. Leave my pathologist alone." He said in a very thinly veiled threat. Anderson sneered, but backed off, and Sherlock released Molly as she squeaked an apology.

Of course, Lestrade, seeing it all, smirked knowingly. "It's about time, Sherlock."

"About time for what?" He asked icily. He didn't even bother turning from the body as he spoke, choosing instead to look over it for clues. He had been wrong, this was barely a 4 on his scale, not even worth coming out here. Since he already was though, he'd finish it. He didn't even need Molly, so she simply stood off to the side, and observed.

"For you to get a girlfriend. Though I hope you don't hurt the poor girl." He said, sending a wink of Molly's blushing form to let her know he was just joking.

"Not my girlfriend." Sherlock said simply, raising his head so Lestrade could see the eye roll. "It was obviously the woman's lover. Don't bother calling me if it's this obvious. Come on Molly." He said, moving past them without giving Lestrade a chance to reply.

"Sorry about that Greg, he's just… a bit frazzled, I guess." Molly apologized, before following Sherlock once more. Even if she hadn't really done anything, it had still been fun, apart from everyone asking if they were dating.

—

The very last straw for the consulting detective had been when Molly texted him with an all too familiar problem.

Sherlock… I think I've been kidnapped. A black car pulled up, and a strange woman stepped out, and told me to get in. She's on her own phone now. I'm confused. Help? – Molls xx

You have indeed been kidnapped by the most dangerous man in London. Remain calm, I'll get you shortly. – SH

WHAT?! Sherlock, this isn't funny! We've stopped at some sort of warehouse. I don't like this at all. – Molls xx

You're relatively safe. Just do what he says, not far off. – SH

All right. I'm trusting you Sherlock. – Molls xx

Sherlock was on the scene minutes later, and he was positively livid at his brother, who seemed to be interrogating the pathologist heavily, leaving her flustered until she spotted Sherlock, and her face melted into one of relief.

"What do you think you're doing Mycroft?" he demanded as he came to Molly's side, gripping her shoulders possessively. "You have no right to pester my pathologist."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Now now little brother, there's no need for such hostilities. Mummy was simply curious, so I thought I'd meet her in person."

"Brother?!" Molly exclaimed, though she was ignored, as they seemed to be locked in a battle of who could glare daggers best.

"Stay away from my pathologist Mycroft. Mummy doesn't need to know her." Sherlock sneered.

"Oh, I think you're wrong about that Sherlock. Mummy is most interested in her youngest son's affairs."

"No." Without another word, Sherlock spun both he and Molly around, and marched her to a waiting cab, despite her protests.

"Sherlock, what's going on? That was you brother? Sherlock, answer me!" Still, the consulting detective remained silent all throughout the cab ride, up until they reached her flat. He led her to her door, pausing there, and finally releasing her.

"Sherlock, seriously, what happened back there? Why did your brother kidnap me?" Molly demanded, standing her ground under his scrutinizing gaze.

"He kidnapped you to bother me, obviously." He finally answered with an annoyed sigh. "He enjoys meddling in my life."

"Why, though? That doesn't make sense Sherlock. Normal siblings don't kidnap their brother's friends."

"Because he believes we are more than what we are." Sherlock says simply, rolling his eyes. "The same as most people seem to believe now.

"Well… aren't we? I mean, I did help you fake you death. And you do sleep in my flat a lot. And you visit me in the morgue. Not that it matters, of course." Molly said, looking down, suddenly shy.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry, for all this bother, Molly. I didn't want you exposed to this."

"It's fine."

Still, Sherlock wrapped her into a tight embrace, comforting her silently, and she took what he had to offer silently, burrowing deep into his chest for just a moment, before pulling away with a soft smile. "Thank you Sherlock. I'll see you later then?"

Sherlock nodded simply, letting her go once more, and watching as she entered her flat before he went back to Baker's street, using the still-waiting cab.

—

"Confirmed: Pathologist and Consulting Detective an Item"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock demanded, glaring over at John, who held up this morning's paper. "Take a look at this Sherlock, you can't possibly deny this."

Sherlock snatched the paper from him, and quickly skimmed over the introduction to the article, which read:

It's finally confirmed, famous Consulting Detective and St. Bart's Pathologist Molly Hooper ARE dating! Ladies are swooning everywhere at the loss of this bachelor in the making. Read the full story on page 3.

He scrambled through the pages until he found the full article, and there, as supposed proof of their coupling, was a picture of them in an apparently intimate embrace just outside Molly's door – obviously taken the day before as he dropped her off.

"Bloody Hell!"


	8. Pencil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+
> 
> Origin: Prompt from Anon, one Word, Pencil, written Pre S3
> 
> Brief summary: Molly sketches in her free time. Her main inspiration now? Sherlock, of course.

It was one of Molly's hidden talents, sketching. She only did it in the comfort and peace of her own home, in private. Sometimes, the mood just struck her, and she'd pick up her pencil and sketch pad and draw whatever was in front of her. Sometimes it was Toby laying down at the edge of the bed. Other times, it was a stack of books sitting at an odd angle. It really didn't matter, when she decided that something looked cute or interesting, she just had to draw it.

Only one other person knew about her secret habit, mostly because since they had moved in together, he had become a bit of an inspiration for several of her sketches.

Like when she found him lying on the couch, legs dangling slightly off the arm rest. He was clearly deep in his mind palace, and he looked so peaceful. In an instant, she decided to save that.

She gathered up her supplies, and sat down, steadying the pad on her knees as she worked to get his posture just right – his curls, though lovely and soft, were nearly impossible to draw.

Several minutes into the sketch, and she had a decent outline made. She looked up once more to get another look at her unknowing model, and of course Sherlock chose that moment to open his eyes, and turn towards her as well.

She blushed, and ducked her head behind her pad, shutting it quickly as though that would hide the evidence of her work.

"Sketching. I knew you did it, though I've never seen you actually drawing. Your fingertips give you away – you forget to wipe of the granite occasionally."

"Yes, well… sorry, I hope I wasn't bothering you."

"Not at all." Sherlock replied, sitting up and striding towards her.

She looked up at him through her lashes, and nibbled her bottom lip nervously.

"May I see them?"

"Oh-kay." She muttered, holding her sketch book out to him. He'd just go through hit later if she didn't say yes. Some things about him never changed, and respect for privacy and possessions was one of them.

He flipped through the book slowly. Molly knew which picture he was, having memorized which page each picture was one. He paused on the most recent ones – usually drawings of him in moments similar to this one, when he was distracted for long periods of time, on his laptop or phone or, once, asleep in their bedroom.

He paused an especially long time on that one.

Finally, he handed the drawing pad back to her, and returned to the couch, lying back down on it I nthe exact position he had been in earlier.

"You may continue." He said quietly, closing his eyes once more.

Molly smiled, and did just that.


	9. Fresh Air and Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+
> 
> Origin: Prompt from mayacakaia on Tumblr, original prompt below, Pre S3
> 
> Brief summary: John's wedding party, When Molly brings bored Sherlock out for some fresh air, John, Mary, Mrs. H and everyone (incl. Anderson and DI Dimmock) starts retelling one Sherlolly moment which leads him/her to believe these two harbour feelings for each other and how frustrating that they are still not yet together. Thank you.

Dull. The word ran through Sherlock's mind once more John danced with his new bride for the first time. Weddings were dull, boring, pointless.

He cast his gaze around the room for what seemed like the thousandth time, as if a new case would appear out of thin air to distract him. At this point, he'd accept a petty theft. Anything to remove himself from this occasion. Sure, he was the Best man, but his boredom was palpable.

Anyone and everyone who could have offered a distraction was here as well.

Mrs. Hudson was sniffling in a seat a few tables away, wiping her eyes on the back of her hands because some foolish superstition kept her from bringing a handkerchief.

Lestrade was dancing with his ex-wife, having managed to reconnect with her. It wouldn't last long; she was having an affair with the caterer.

Even Anderson, annoying as he was, was sitting a few rows back with his wife. Marriage trouble. Hopefully a divorce in the future, though upon meeting the woman, it was clear that that wasn't going to happen.

Molly was… had been a few seats down from him, but now she made her way over. Sherlock rolled his eyes. A dance, most likely.

He thought his assumption was confirmed when she held out a hand for his, and he simply shook his head. "I don't dance, Molly. Find someone else."

"I'm not asking for a dance, come on." Ignoring his frown, she took his hand, and pulled him up from the seat. "We're just going for a walk. Anyone can tell you're bored, and this is John's special day. Can't have the best man looking so mopey." She teased him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes once more, though he allowed her to lead him away.

It turns out she was leading him to a small patio not too far from the entrance of the reception hall. Still, she sat down, letting go of his hand at last, and patted the seat beside her invitingly. After having so much contact with Sherlock, most of her meek, stuttering shyness faded, replaced with a much brighter, cheerier Molly Hooper.

Sherlock found he didn't mind this one nearly as much as he thought he might. He took the seat she indicated, and they sat together in companionable silence for a bit.

… .

Mrs. Hudson, ever the busy body, had followed the two with her eyes the entire time, and a knowing smile curved on her lips. At the same time, she was Joined a few other people.

John cast a quick glance around before claiming the seat next to the old woman, and Mary, acting much the happy bride she was, sat on his lap. She never cared what others thought about her overzealousness, one of the reasons that Sherlock had actually approved of her in the first place.

Lestrade, joined them as well moments later followed by Anderson, Dimmock, and Donovan. John had felt the need to invite them because they, though not friends by any means, still interacted often enough. It seemed rude to only invite Lestrade.

"Oh deary, you look lovely." said, smiling at the newlyweds even as she wondered how to question John about Sherlock and Molly.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

No better time like the present. "So dearys, I saw Sherlock and that sweet little woman, Molly I believe, slip out. Have I been missing something?"

John shook his head, though he looked towards the door. "According to those two, there's nothing going on."

"No, that can't be right." Mary said from her perch on his lap. "I know I've seen them talking. Just the other day, Sherlock actually brought Molly coffee. Not the other way around."

"He even brought her to a crime scene. She was a bit cheerful as she looked over the body. Bit creepy. They're made for each other, both obsessed with death." Donovan added, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

John sighed. "Sherlock doesn't do love, remember? Feelings are pointless and all that? He hasn't changed."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that love." Molly said, kissing his Jaw line sweetly.

"Why, she came over to Baker's street just last week carrying a cooler." Mrs. Hudson added. "She stayed quite a few hours, and they made such a racket."

"It was an experiment, Mrs. Hudson, She was probably just helping him out." Again, John sighed. He wanted it to be true, but he'd lived long enough with the man to know it.

"I don't know, seeing her at the crime scene was a bit off. She didn't even do much, honestly. Just stood in the background while he showed his arse." Lestrade.

The conservation continued, back and forth between the group as they gossiped about Sherlock and Molly and the what-ifs that went along with them.

… . .

Outside, the two in question had shifted slightly. Now, Molly's head was resting quite comfortably on Sherlock's shoulder, and their fingers were intertwined. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

"When are we going to tell them? I'm sure they noticed our absence by now."

Sherlock smirked, and turned his head to kiss Molly's brow. "When they learn to observe as well as see. I want to know how long it takes for them to realize. I'm a bit surprised John hasn't already."

Molly giggled slightly. "Oh, you're horrible Sherlock Holmes. They'll never know at this rate."

"Good. Just a little longer that I don't have to share my pathologist."


	10. Feline Similarities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+
> 
> Origin: Prompt from Anon, Pre S3
> 
> Brief summary: Sherlock hates Molly's new cat who is, ironically enough, very much like him. I guess the two would compete for her attention constantly.

When Molly had moved in with him shortly after their relationship started, Sherlock had set certain limits and rules, and she had done the same.

Her rules included no appendages on the same shelves as food, and no moldy experiments on the kitchen table.

He had one rule. Only one cat. ONLY ONE. Toby was bothersome enough, considering for the first month after she moved him, Toby would scratch at the bedroom door at night to be let in so he could curl up at the foot of the bed. That was a buzz kill on so many levels.

Plus, he got into things. Sherlock had had to remake John's old room into a lab of sorts, to keep several of his more delicated experiments safe from the feline.

Somehow or another, the cat and he had reached an agreement. The cat slept on the couch at night, and Sherlock didn't immediately shove him off when he curled up in his lap as Sherlock went into his mind palace.

Molly thought the agreement was a sign that Sherlock liked cats. Or maybe it was just fate being a cruel lady indeed, because now, NOW, Molly stood in front of him, soaking wet since she had just ran through the rain to get to Baker's street after a walk. Now, that's not so bad.

The thing that had him crinkling his nose in distaste was the equally soaked grey and white bundle Molly cradled in her arms as she gave him the most innocent look she could muster with her hair plastered on her face and she dripped onto the tile.

"Please Sherlock? She was abandoned…" Molly explained helplessly, cooing the little bundle. "I couldn't just leave her there all alone."

Again, she looked up at him, her wide brown eyes pleading. What was he to do?

He sighed dramatically. "All right."

Immediately, Molly brightened. "Thank you!" She kissed him quickly before darting into the bathroom to dry herself and the kitten in question off.

The next day, Sherlock immediately began to regret the decision. The kitten – Crystal, Molly had decided to name her for her piercing blue eyes – couldn't seem to not get into things. She was loud, meowing for the littlest things, and he couldn't sit down anywhere without her pouncing onto his lap, and batting at his hands, just begging for attention. She seemed to attach herself to him, despite his clear disinterest in the feline.

She followed him around like a dog, meowing all the while unless he deigned to pick her up, at which point she would claw the rest of the way to his shoulder and perch there like some demented, furry parrot, still meowing all the while.

Whenever he went into his experimental room, the cat was sure to follow, getting into several things before he could get her under control. More than one vital experiment had been ruined because of her games.

And when she wasn't with Sherlock, Molly was busy coddling it, and cooing, and snuggling it. One cat had been kicked from the bedroom, only to have another take its place. The creature just demanded attention, but nothing could keep it interested for longer than ten minutes. It was infuriating!

"Molly, the cat stays outside."

Sherlock… please… just until she grows up into a bwig strong kitty." He had begun to coo mid-sentence, twiddling her fingers above the kitten as she batted at her hand.

Sherlock growled his frustrations, and curled up on the complete opposite side of the bed to sulk.

"You're just upset because she's too much like you." Molly teased, poking at him with her feet.

"That creature is nothing like me!" he replied indignity.

"Yes she is." She said, smiling.

"How so?"

"She whines for attention, loves to be cuddled, makes messes, oh, and loves kisses." Molly chose that moment to lay a soft one on the kitten's nose, and she swatted at Molly's nose with a small meow of dislike.

In an instant, Sherlock was on the other side of the bed, his arms locked around Molly's waist as he glared down at the feline.

"The cat does outside the bedroom."

"Sherlock…"

"Molly. Cat. Outside."

Molly rolled her eyes. "All right, sour puss." She teased, kissing his again as she wriggled out of his hold. She cast a mischievous glance back at him in the bed, and gave the kitten one, two, three soft pecks before placing her outside the room.

"Mine." Sherlock said, wrapping his arms back around her and pulling her on top of him as she drew close enough for him to do so.

Molly giggled, and kissed him sweetly. "Of course I'm yours, silly."

And Sherlock began to demonstrate just how 'his' she was, ignoring the mewling on the other side of the door. It faded away soon enough.


End file.
